Debts to be Paid
by AnnaRinzler
Summary: When Slade shows up to collect what he's owed, it may just ruin Irene's life for good.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

_Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Titans, but I __do __own Irene._

Irene O'Sullivan hummed to herself as she turned the silver knob in her shower and stopped the flow of hot water. The white marble on the shower walls dewed up, steam rising from its glistening surface as she slowly opened the sliding glass door and let in a rush of cold air. The white tiles of the bathroom floor were cool beneath her feet. Irene shivered and quickly snatched her towel from its designated hook, drying off before wrapping up in her favorite purple satin robe. Outside the bathroom door she could hear Watson, her grossly overweight black cat, meowing and pawing at the doorknob to be let it. He didn't typically like to be out of his mistress's company for more than two hours, which was about how long it had taken her to unwind from the stress of the day in the bathroom. Her French manicure, pedicure, and long, hot shower were well deserved. Thank god her current job at Starbucks was only temporary, or she would need to check _herself _into a mental hospital.

"I know, Watson," Irene sighed in reply to the cat's yowling.

She gave her hair a quick once-over with the towel to get rid of excess water and tossed it on the bathroom counter. When she opened the door Watson purred and immediately shot inside, winding between her feet for attention. What he _really _wanted was a treat, and Irene had been in too much of a foul mood when she got in from her shift to properly spoil him this evening. She scooped him up in her arms. The walk to the kitchen in her small apartment was a short one. Irene took four steps down the hallway and turned right, idly trying to remember which cabinet the cat treats had been—

The fact that there was a large presence in the room when there should have been no one registered before anything else did. A shot of adrenaline thumped through her body and Irene blinked once, clutching Watson closer on instinct. She gasped the instant she fully _saw_ the figure sitting at her kitchen table, a shudder running through her when she saw the glint of the light off of the phantom's cold copper mask. He sat comfortably in the chair facing the living room, the fingers of one hand drumming silently on the tabletop. It took all her willpower not to drop her cat on the floor and run. Instead she clutched him tighter, backing slowly away from the kitchen and trying to breathe. The door to the building's hallway was directly behind her but she knew she'd never make it. Few incidents in her life had left her literally speechless, and this was one of them. She just kept staring at him, mouth agape, trying to make herself believe that he was really there.

"It's been _awhile, _hasn't it?" Slade asked, his silky, malevolent voice sending another shudder through her body, "But a promise is a promise…so here I am."

"S-Slade," Irene stammered, "How—you're dead. You're not real."

"I'm very real," he replied, rising from his seat and advancing smoothly toward her, arms locked smartly behind his back, "And you know why I'm here. It's time to pay your debt, little girl."

She numbly shook her head, her mind still reeling. This was _impossible. _Slade had died over a year ago, everybody knew that. The Titans had made a written statement. They'd seen him die with their own eyes—the man fell in a pit of lava, for God's sake! Watson, unhappy with the way she was crushing him to her chest, wriggled out of her arms with a protesting meow and landed on the red living room rug. Irene's eyes left Slade's only once, when she took another step backward and almost tripped on the rug. One brief glance downward at the apartment's hardwood floor and her gaze was glued to the man in front of her once again. He was a monster. There was nothing human in his cold, harsh stare but she couldn't look away.

"Don't, _please. _I have a life here, and family, and friends…I can't just disappear! I've—I've been accepted into Harvard law school!"

A babble of excuses poured out of her mouth. Irene couldn't hear what she was saying anymore, she only knew that it was a desperate plea for compassion and sympathy that wouldn't come. Irene fell silent out of fear when Slade took her face in his gloved hands and tilted it upward. She flinched at the contact, blinking back tears as she refused to look into his single piercing eye. His touch was rough and analytical, as if he were examining a particularly troublesome specimen, and Slade's black gloves were coarse against the sensitive skin of her jaw. Irene knew he was strong and he held Irene's face tilted at the angle he wanted with no effort, causing a slight strain in her neck. For a few seconds the only sound of in the apartment was her own panicked, shallow breathing.

"I told you I would come for you," Slade replied quietly, "I gave you four years to say goodbye, but now you belong to me."

At this declaration Irene attempted in vain to wrench herself free. All she succeeded in doing was making her neck muscles scream in protest as Slade's hands locked against her jawbone. She instinctively brought her hands up and started tugging at his wrists, trying in vain to pull his fingers away from her face.

"Get dressed. Wear something comfortable."

He finally let her go of his own accord and easily broke her grip. Irene's momentum worked against her. She stumbled backward, catching herself on the sofa and looking up at him through watery eyes. Slade stood in front of her with his arms folded, watching her every move. Maybe she should call 911. But if she did, they'd get here too late, so what did it matter? Irene was almost numb with shock. Desperation and sorrow would come later, when she thought about her parents and grandparents and friends, but for now the adrenaline in her veins kept her in a state of nervous panic. So she did what he said. Irene turned the corner and fled down the hall, stumbling blindly to her bedroom. The small, sparsely-decorated space seemed warmer and more inviting now that Irene had to leave it. She'd picked out everything herself, from the mahogany furniture to the light blue paint on the walls. This place was home, and now _Slade _wanted her to leave it all behind. Angrily swiping at her tears, Irene turned away and opened the closet door. Her movements were jerky. She was shaking as she yanked on a dark green jogging suit along with her "Jump City College" tank top. It was a desperate bid to hold on to a bit of her past, along with the treasured strand of pearls she swiped off of her nightstand. The clasp was difficult and she settled for stuffing them in her pocket. Surely Slade wouldn't object to her saving her grandmother's necklace, right?

She ran back out in the hallway and paused out of habit to check her reflection. Catching a glimpse of herself in her floor-length mirror, Irene flinched and wiped away her tears. Her green eyes were puffy and bloodshot and her hair was still very damp, laying flat and matted in different places. Irene put it up in a ponytail with the elastic band on her wrist and took deep, gulping breaths as she walked back out into the living room. He was still standing there, arms crossed in front of him as he waited for her come out. Slade's presence was making her hysterical and she averted her eyes as she stood in front of him and tried to keep from crying anymore.

"Time to go, Irene."

"Okay."

It was barely the ghost of a whisper, but she forced the word out just the same. Slade turned and headed to the door and she glanced over at Watson. She couldn't just _leave _him here all alone, could she? Without sparing a glance at Slade Irene fetched her cat and followed behind him. He shut the door and walked toward the stairwell. His footsteps made absolutely no sound despite the fact that he appeared to be wearing heavy, steel-toed boots. They took the three flights of stairs to the ground in silence, Irene forcing herself to stay at least three steps behind her captor at all times. Once they got outside Irene shivered in the nighttime fall air. They'd taken a side exit out into a small alley, where some of the residents' cars were parallel parked along the narrow street. The headlights of a nondescript, black BMW flickered on and she followed Slade to the car, wordlessly getting in the passenger seat. She put Watson in the back and scrunched down against the black leather seat, trying to make herself as small as possible. For a second Slade glanced behind him and Irene thought he was going to object, but he remained silent for a moment.

"Take off your jacket."

"What? Why?" Irene asked, as she instinctively clutched it tighter around her body.

"You heard me."

Slade reached over and took the zipper in his gloved hands, leaving her too paralyzed to move. Irene squirmed against the contact when the cold metal of his uniform bit painfully into her collarbone as he leaned in to get a better grip on her clothes. Slade yanked her sleeves down, exposing more of her arms to the cold air. He was definitely invading her personal space, but she did nothing except try to move away from him. Her jacket, however, was finally wrenched off despite her best efforts. Nothing but a tank top separated the two of them and she hugged her arms across her chest, drawing her feet up as well. She was used to thinking of Slade as a robot who mostly left her alone, but right now she wasn't exactly sure what he was planning on doing with-or to-her while she was trapped in his car. Irene let out a small yelp when he grabbed her left forearm, his vice-like grip putting an uncomfortable amount of pressure on her skin and muscles.

"_Relax_, Irene."

She looked down and felt the small prick of a needle going into her arm. It was filled with some sort of clear fluid that Slade slowly shot into her, and before too long she realized that it was a sedative. Her body uncoiled, legs sliding back to the floor of their own accord. She slumped forward. Slade caught her and adjusted her unresponsive body back in the passenger seat, and last thing she heard before everything faded to black was the sound of the car starting up.

**Author's Note: Please read and review! Suggestions/comments are always welcome.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Consciousness was slow to come. Irene stayed on the edge of it for a long, long time, until the feeling of light against her eyelids grew too acute to stand anymore. She floated up slowly, unaware of anything but the little flashes across her face, and finally stirred. Her brain was just as sluggish as her body and it fought against thinking, moving, and feeling. Irene's limbs felt as though they were immersed in syrup and it took every ounce of strength in her body to just slowly crack open her eyelids. Clouded and sleepy, her vacant eyes stared up at a white, textured ceiling for a minute before the rest of Irene's body woke up and started moving. Thinking was too difficult at this point. Her brain ran on autopilot and tried its hardest to move her legs and arms. They were bare; Irene was lying in a heap in her bra and underwear, a thin sheet covering her body. The source of the light that had irritated her was coming from the window to her right. An early-morning glare streamed in through the blinds and somewhere a bird was chirping loudly. It was the sight of her neatly-folded clothes on a bureau directly across the bed that sent a rush of adrenaline flowing through her body and brought the whole situation back to her.

"Ungh," she groaned eloquently, trying her damndest to sit up.

She succeeded in getting herself into a half-sitting position and collapsed against the wall, exhausted from that simple exertion of energy. From this vantage point Irene was able to see that she was in a sparsely-furnished room that had only a bed, chest of drawers, and bureau with a mirror over it. The walls were painted a light blue. It was obviously someone's guest room, and there was a door leaning to a bathroom, and another door that was closed and presumably led out into a hallway. She swallowed hard, closing her eyes against the nausea that was creeping up on her. Soon, though, it became too persistent to ignore. To make it to the bathroom was going to take quite a bit of work, but Irene knew that she had to start heading there or things would not be pretty. She gingerly tried sliding out of bed and promptly fell on her face, the carpet floor knocking the breath out of her lungs. For a moment the pain was greater than the nausea but that quickly dissipated and the need to vomit returned in full force. Irene half-crawled, half-drug herself to the bathroom, mentally cursing Slade every inch of the way. Whatever he'd shot into her had obviously fried her system. Hell, she'd probably overdosed on the stuff. By the time she reached the bathroom, the contents of Irene's stomach were well on their way back up and she barely made it into the toilet. Her stomach was curled up in knots by the time she was done heaving, the half-darkness of the unlit bathroom providing a welcome respite from the cheerful morning sun. Leaning against the cold porcelain of the toilet, Irene reached up a shaky hand and flushed her sickness away, still unable to convince her body to rouse itself into a full sitting position. Her head was still lolling against the toilet when the bathroom light came on, eliciting a loud groan from the nauseated girl. She glanced to her right; a pair of black army boots came into her field of vision, their owner impatiently tapping one foot.

"Clean yourself up," Slade said emotionlessly, tossing a washcloth on the ground beside her, "Come downstairs when you're through."

He turned on one heel and left her alone with her thoughts, his entrance and exit too abrupt for Irene to even come up with a reply. A small knot of anger formed along with the pain in her stomach. Asshole. All of this was his fault anyway. Irene had always been a cranky sick person. Even when she was a little girl, it was as if she needed to take out her discomfort on the people closest to her, even if it wasn't their fault. This time was different though—this time she had a legitimate culprit for her misery. Irene grudgingly took the washcloth and wiped her face off, some of her strength gradually sneaking back into her bones. It took a several slow minutes to raise herself into a standing position as she leaned against the sink, clutching it for support like an anchor in the storm. When Irene finally looked at her reflection she gave an unhappy little sigh. She looked like crap. Her hair was curly and frizzy and unkempt, the result of being slept on without being combed first. Her skin was oily and a pimple was forming on her chin, as evidenced by the small, irritated red area that had staked a claim there, and to top it all off, she'd grabbed her oldest white bra and black underwear from her drawer the previous night. She looked like a crack addict. A crack addict who would never get to go home again. Irene had nothing but the clothes on her back to remind her of what she'd left—

"My _cat," _she breathed in horror, her eyes widening as she thought of Watson.

Irene moved quicker now, stumbling out of the bathroom and yanking her clothes off the bureau, clumsily putting them back on as she scanned the room. Slade, the son of a bitch, had probably given him away to an animal shelter by now. A child's delighted shriek caught her attention and she walked back to the bed, leaning against it to look out the window. The view was gorgeous—suburbs with emerald grass, trees, and beautiful, modern houses. But her gaze quickly zeroed in on the yard across the street, and the little boy and his mother playing in it. The child was kneeling and wrapping his arms around something fat and black and fuzzy, and she didn't have to look twice to know that it was her cat. Gritting her teeth, Irene clumsily made it to the door, leaning on the frame for support. She paused for a moment in the hallway to get her bearings, the hardwood floor cold beneath her feet. The whole house was light and fresh and clean, but Slade and his strangely decent decorating tastes weren't on the forefront of her mind at the moment. He'd said to come downstairs, but if she ran into him she probably wouldn't get to go anywhere. Creeping down the steps as quietly as possible, Irene found herself in what seemed to be the back of the main living room. She could hear him walking through the downstairs hallway and talking on the phone. The whole place seemed cold and artificial, as if it was something out of a magazine or a commercial setup in a furniture store. A really _nice _furniture store. Irene's eyes flickered over the dark brown leather furniture and large, flat-screen tv as she soundlessly tried to figure out where to go next. The main entrance was in front of her, through a foyer, and before he could catch her Irene wove her way through the couch and recliners and snuck out the door.

"Shoes would have been smart," she muttered under her breath, mincing across the concrete path that lead from the door to the road.

Irene pasted a shaky smile on her face and tried in vain to smooth her hair down. She must have looked a sight to the suburban mom across the street, but that didn't matter right now. All that mattered was getting her stupid cat back and hiding him so that Slade wouldn't toss him out. As she got closer, stepping into the grass with a relieved sigh, Irene could see that the mother was wearing a Ralph Lauren pony dress, her brown hair in a tight bun, and the child was wearing a polo and khaki shorts. He couldn't have been older than twelve, and he was currently tugging lightly on Watson's tail. Watson, strangely enough, was allowing it.

"Hi," she croaked, clearing her throat, which was dry from disuse.

The mother smiled at her, eyes flickering up and down Irene's form as she tried to gauge her. Shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, Slade's captive glanced pointedly at the brown-haired boy and Watson.

"Hello, is this your cat?" Soccer Mom replied pleasantly.

She nodded and the boy looked up before scooping Watson into his arms and holding him out to her. He was purring as she took him back, as if she never paid any attention to him and he needed to run to some kid to get petted. Irene stood there awkwardly for a moment, adjusting the bulk in her hands before Soccer Mom broke the silence.

"So," she said, looking past Irene toward Slade's house, "I take it you…know John?"

"I'm his little sister, I just came in for a visit."

Her quick thinking got the desired response and Soccer Mom beamed. It was obviously what she wanted to hear, and Irene had rightfully assumed that "John" was Slade's alias in this town. The entire place seemed to be the typical wholesome, suburban neighborhood, and Irene knew that any other lie would have drawn some unnecessary attention her way. Slade might wring her neck for this particular fabrication, but it was the best she could do on the spot—"I'm his girlfriend" wouldn't go over too well.

"It's nice to meet you," Soccer Mom replied, "I'm Stacy, and this is Thomas. Honey, say hello to John's sister."

"Hi," the kid said, looking at her with interest for the first time.

"We love having your brother in this neighborhood," Stacy continued, lowering her voice, "We just feel a lot safer knowing someone from the Bureau is here if we need him."

Irene nodded and pasted a smile on her face, heart pounding in her ears from the fabrication. The Bureau? Slade had them convinced he worked for the FBI? Slade had them convinced of _anything? _Stacy talked about him as if they were good friends, but it was really hard to see Slade socializing in the suburbs. It was hard to see Slade doing much of anything with this square, suburban mother and her WASP-y family.

"Nice to meet you too," she replied quickly, "I have to go, thank you for keeping my cat entertained."

"You're welcome," Thomas chirped, "Can I play with him again later?"

"Sure," she lied, "We'll see you around."

"Bye!" Stacy replied, flashing her one last smile before Irene turned around and began walking back to Slade's house.

"I hate it here," she muttered to Watson, "I didn't move away just to live in a stupid Stepford neighborhood again. Everyone's so fake. Including Slade."

She paused for a moment to look up at "John's" two-story house. It was a respectable size, not too small but not too outlandish for a single person to live in it. She had to admit that it was good-looking, made of dark red brick and with white trim around the edges and done in French style. But that wasn't the point. The point was, he had yanked her away from everything and everyone she knew, and for what? She didn't know yet. When Irene got back to the front door it was still cracked, like she'd left it. That was good, it obviously meant Slade hadn't noticed her absence yet. Gingerly easing her way back inside the house, Irene held her breath as she turned around and pushed the door shut with her foot.

"Back so soon?" Slade asked icily.

Irene jumped and took a deep breath, trying to gather her courage before turning around. She slowly moved to face him, excuses already on her tongue before her jaw dropped. The man standing before her couldn't have been older than thirty-five, wearing a black eye patch where his right eye should have been. It contrasted starkly with his white hair single, piercing blue eye. If he hadn't been glaring angrily at her, Irene would have been more interested in his form-fitting white t-shirt and blue jeans. The man standing in front of her was tall, classically handsome, and ridiculously fit. He was, in a word, gorgeous. Unfortunately, the only thing the angry scowl on his unmasked face told her was that she was in for a world of hurt.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Watson, perhaps sensing the tension in the room or perhaps feeling constricted by Irene's suddenly tight grip, gave a small meow of displeasure and wriggled out of her arms, landing daintily on the floor before walking quickly into the kitchen directly across from the foyer. Irene didn't know what to do so she flattened herself against the door, pinned in place by Slade's stare like a butterfly on a pin. Her mind couldn't take everything in at once. Waking up in suburbia, getting in serious trouble, and seeing Slade without a mask all at once was too much for one day. She fought the last traces of the nausea left over from the tranquilizer and wracking her brain for something to say. Irene was spared from trying to force words out of her mouth when Slade walked closer, getting within two inches of her face. She looked up at him with wide eyes, tightening the muscles of her stomach so that their bodies wouldn't touch.

"What did you say to them?"

His voice was slow and controlled, with an undercurrent of irritation that got stronger with every word. She swallowed hard, attempting to gather her thoughts in order to form a coherent sentence.

"I said that I was your little sister…that I was visiting you. I didn't tell them my name."

"Fine," Slade said curtly, "As you can probably tell, I've managed to build a decent reputation in this neighborhood, and I would _hate _to have it spoiled by your big mouth."

Irene couldn't do anything but nod and he stepped further away from her, his eye coldly flickering up and down her body in what felt like a physical assessment. Even without his mask and standard uniform, Slade possessed all the warmth of an angry python. Shuffling her feet and looking down, Irene noted that she'd tracked a few blades of grass on the Persian rug in the otherwise immaculate house. Hopefully he wouldn't notice, and if he did notice, hopefully he wouldn't beat her for it, or worse. Some part of her mind took note of the ridiculousness of seeing him in jeans. Didn't criminals sleep in their uniforms?

"You had a slight overdose of my tranquilizer," he continued finally, "_Slight_, so go ahead and wipe that look off of your face. There's medicine in the kitchen if you're still feeling any ill effects."

Her frown deepened. A _slight_ overdose? It had taken her almost an hour to wake up, and she'd been knocked out for god knew how long before that. Irene had completely lost her taste for everything but water, and even though she felt thirsty, she was still too queasy to attempt drinking anything yet. Still, she managed to mask her resentment and grudgingly began walking to the kitchen when Slade did. A slight headache was beginning to pulse at the back of her head, as if Slade had willed it there just by mentioning it. Walking into the kitchen, Irene glanced around warily for any signs that a criminal genius lived in it. She constantly expected to find weapons or other oddities that would out Slade for who he really was, but just as her guest room had been sparse and innocuous, the kitchen was ordinary as well. Sun shone in through the wooden blinds, hitting the small breakfast table, brown granite countertops and mahogany cabinets. Sleek, modern appliances were nestled in their proper places.

"Is there a problem?" Slade asked, his aggressive tone suggesting that there had better not be.

"No, I just…no."

She shook her head dumbly, which was quickly becoming her preferred response to Slade's questions. To his credit he hadn't said or done anything particularly evil to her (besides the kidnapping, which she knew was coming anyway) but Irene was still wary around him anyway. She didn't know what to do or how much she could get away with saying, and she certainly wasn't going to admit that she was looking around for guns or other sinister devices. Things were awkward between them, like a date between two people who'd only ever talked over the internet and didn't know how to interact in real life.

"Move," he said curtly to her cat, who had decided to curl up beside the stainless steel refrigerator, "Sit."

His final imperative was directed at Irene and was accompanied by a jerk of his head toward the small table. Slade waited for Watson to get out of the way (She could add "nice to animals" on the otherwise blank list of his positive character traits) and opened the refrigerator. Irene took the opportunity to study his face. He has a strong jaw. She shifted her gaze downward when Slade turned toward her and feigned interest in the texture of the table's wood instead of his single blue eye when her kidnapper moved again. He grabbed a bottle of water and opened up a cabinet above the counter, and pulling out a bottle of Tylenol, he sat both of them in front of her before walking wordlessly out of the room. She stared at the water. It was Great Value brand, and the Tylenol was actually Equate. Perhaps Slade didn't care about labels, or perhaps he had so much money because he was consistently frugal. Irene tried and failed to picture him shopping at Wal-Mart like a normal person. She was only roused out of her thoughts by his return and by the large manila folder he carried with him. Slade pulled out a seat across from her and opened the folder, shuffling several of the papers inside of it as he dug around for what he wanted. To give herself something to do, Irene cracked open the water bottle and shook out two "Tylenol", popping them into her mouth and taking the smallest sip of the water possible.

"We have a lot of ground to cover," Slade began, "Starting with this. Put it on."

He held up a slender, metallic bracelet no wider than her little finger. It was unclasped at the moment, the bare hinges exposed to the elements. Irene stared warily at it before holding out her open palm. She examined it from all sides, but there were no distinguishing markings on the bracelet to tell what it did or where it came from.

"Will it hurt?"

"No," he responded, his face unreadable as he watched her clasp it on her wrist.

It fit perfectly, the clasp seemingly disappearing into itself until the bracelet appeared to be one solid metal line. She smoothed her thumb over its shiny surface and wracked her brain for possible uses. It was too small to be of any use as a weapon. Perhaps it was a tracking device, or something to block a signal with. Irene idly turned her hand over and attempted to remove it by pressing on the thin line where the clasp was. It didn't budge. Her eyes widened and Slade watched her silently struggle with it for a moment before looking up at him with a questioning gaze.

"It won't come off."

"It's not supposed to. The bracelet is designed to keep you in this yard, at least for now. Should you attempt to leave, it will send 50 amps of current through your body, effectively stopping your heart."

His nonchalance was a cinderblock on her chest. She couldn't breathe. Slade continued shuffling through the papers with apparently leisure, not even bothering to watch her reaction to being chained to the yard like a dog. She no longer marveled in her ability to see his facial expressions. Now he just seemed horrid and cruel no matter what he looked like.

"Why would you put this on me?" She choked out, "And—and what happens if I accidently step out of it, like if I have to get Watson? Why are you _doing_ this?"

"People don't handle death well," Slade replied, launching into a seemingly-unrelated topic, "Particularly the news of their own demise, fabricated or not."

"_What?" _

"While you were sleeping I took the liberty of burning your apartment. I've already read the police report—the official story is that you perished in the fire. Tragic, really, how easily fooled people are these days."

She sat there in a stunned silence, the sound of her own blood roaring in her ears. Slade flicked through his paperwork. Irene had always known that he would come for her. For years he'd lurked in the back of her mind. In some ways he'd made her a better person. Everything she did had seemed to have a finality about it, at least for awhile. Irene had been convinced that he would come while she was sleeping and snatch her away in the middle of the night, leaving her family to wonder where she was. She'd tried hard to be a better person. A better daughter. But she had never been able to reconcile the idea of Slade taking her with the idea that he would have to do _something _in order to avoid being chased and to avoid having Irene's Missing Person poster plastered all over town and the internet. This was it. His final solution. It was unthinkable, but she should have seen it coming all along. It was a neat, tidy way to ensure that no one would come looking for Irene O'Sullivan ever again.

"This can't be happening," she said, "I…you can't do this! My family, my grandparents…everyone thinks I'm _dead_!"

"Irene O'Sullivan _is _dead," he responded calmly.

Slade slid an official U.S. Passport toward her. Irene stared dumbly at the compact blue square, unwilling to open it or even touch it. What had she done to herself all those years ago? She was Faust, signing away her soul to the highest bidder. She was Dorian Gray, a naive teenager so afraid to die and more afraid to really live. Her thoughts were racing out of control but Irene was mute, unable to protest or even fully process what had just happened. The only sound in the room was her own ragged breathing. Her eyes were fixed on the embossed gold logo of the United States, shining softly in the light. In-out. In-out. In-out. She was hyperventilating, faster and faster, and-

"_Ah!"_

Irene was on the floor before she heard herself cry out. Through her hair she saw Slade's boots inches from her face, and Irene slowly sat up, legs sprawled out in front of her, as red-hot pain smarted on the left side of her head. He'd slapped his captive hard enough to send her reeling, and Irene pressed one hand to her throbbing cheek and stared dumbly up at him, mouth agape. Slade's good eye was narrowed to a slit. Even the broad black eye patch next to it was imposing. Sticking out one foot and sliding the overturned chair away from her, he advanced on Irene, who crawled backward in vain. In one deft move, Slade leaned down and hauled her up by her jacket, throwing her bodily into the refrigerator.

"Listen and listen well, because I will not repeat myself," he hissed, his face so close to hers that she could feel his hot breath against her ear, "You _owe me, _little girl, and no amount of crying or begging is going to get you out of it. If I see any of your sniffling or hear any of your whining again, I'll make you wish you'd never been _born." _

Slade slammed her against the cold steel once more for emphasis and let her go, stepping back to survey Irene again with his cold stare. She dropped her gaze to the floor. The slap had taken most of the shock away from her but it hadn't dealt with the emotional pain rolling under the surface. The sound of a phone ringing in another room brought her out of her own thoughts and she warily looked up at Slade again. For a moment he appeared as if he was going to say something else, but then he glanced behind him.

"Memorize your new personal information and be in this room tomorrow at 6:00 a.m.," Slade said coolly, "I'll be back by then."

She stared at his back as he walked out of the room, Watson purring and winding around her ankles. It was only after she heard the roar of a sports car's engine fading down the suburban drive that Irene allowed the first few tears to fall silently down her face.


End file.
